


From The Corner to The Block

by stereomer



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereomer/pseuds/stereomer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bike messenger AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	From The Corner to The Block

“There’s this guy on my route – ” Ryan pauses to rub the inside of his wrist over his cheekbone. He’s sitting cross-legged by his bike, which is upside down and balanced on its handlebars and seat as he re-oils the chain. A swipe of axle grease gets left behind on his face, but he doesn’t notice. “Anyway,” he says.

Frank waits, but Ryan is now turning one of his pedals in a slow circle and staring at the back wheel of his bike. 

“What?” Frank finally asks. “You didn’t even tell a story. That wasn’t even a complete sentence.”

Ryan keeps studying the wheel. “I just said there’s this guy.”

“Is he cute?” Frank pushes with a breathy, affected voice, something straight out of  _Degrassi: The Next Generation_  or whatever. Not that Frank would know. His goofy grin doesn’t recede in the slightest, even when Ryan drags his eyes away from the wheel to give Frank a withering look. “Do you have a crush on the cute guy from your route?” Frank pokes Ryan’s shoulder for emphasis. 

“How are you five years older than me?” Ryan responds. He still has that stony expression; this, in combination with the grease on his face that Frank hasn’t bothered to inform him about, makes him look sort of like a football player, except for the fact that he doesn’t look like a football player at all. The kid’s built like a fucking praying mantis. Frank might even put a wager on Ryan ripping the heads off all the girls – guys? – he sleeps with. If Ryan even sleeps. 

“I’m young at heart.” Frank rubs a hand over Ryan’s hair and Ryan ducks away, but only half-heartedly. “It’s not my fault you’re an old curmudgeon.”

Ryan cracks a smile at the word. “You’re like one of those kids who needs a full-body leash and gets tied to a tetherball pole at the playground.”

“Ah, but that energy lets me deliver shit like lightning.” And with this, Frank scoops up the stack of sealed envelopes that Ray had dumped into his hands and shoves them into his messenger bag. 

“Don’t over-oil that thing,” he says as he adjusts the straps of his bag until it hangs high on his back, then grabs his bike and swings a leg over in one easy arc. 

“Don’t  _die_ ,” Ryan shoots back, spinning the front wheel by hitting his palm against the tire. Frank has recorded the highest number of minor injuries – scrapes, falls, sprains, concussions – than most of the other messengers combined. Ryan is way at the bottom of the list, along with Travis, who is living proof that being baked all the time doesn’t take away from natural reflexes, and Bob, who just barrels through anything that could cause potential injury.

Which is why it’s kind of ironic that, three days later, Ryan is the one that gets hit by a car.

 

*

 

They don’t find out about it until the morning meeting, at which point Ray assures everyone that Ryan is absolutely fine save for a fractured ankle, and no, they can’t take the day off to visit, or grieve, or throw eggs against the window to his room at the hospital.

“Anyway,” Ray says in a loud voice, effectively using his ‘business’ tone to shut everyone up, “I broke up Ryan’s route into four parts. Travis, you’ll be adding on North, Butcher, you’re South, Frank is East, and Bob, West.” Ray points to random spots of an unfamiliar map as he speaks. It’s kind of a waste of god-given leg power that Ray is manager and thus putters around in his office instead of delivering things. Meanwhile, kids like Ryan and Butcher struggle their way up 45° hills all day long. 

“I think that’s a map of Istanbul, Ray,” Bob says. 

Instead of responding, Ray flips the atlas to the front cover, lays it flat on the table, and dismisses them. Nobody’s really paying attention, anyway.

Butcher is already doing some weird leg stretches against his locker when Frank goes over to get his stuff out. “You better stretch, Frank. Ryan’s East route is basically hills forever.”

“Hills forever, huh?” But after Frank retrieves his cap from his locker, he tucks his calf up, ankle pressed against the back of his thigh, and stretches his hamstring. 

“Yup.” Butcher is now sitting on the ground, legs stretched out into a ‘V’. He talks with his face inches from the floor. “But southside is a breeze. Hot chicks, sandwich shops.”

“Smells like dead fish and piss,” Frank finishes. He props his right foot against the bench and painstakingly rolls up the leg of his jeans until it’s folded just below his knee. The option to dress like Butcher is always a choice, but Frank isn’t quite that desperate or hardcore yet. There’s enough material in Butcher’s shorts to make maybe one sleeve of a t-shirt. He probably shops at Gymboree. 

Butcher is now doing some high kicks while huffing air out in hard little puffs. Bob dodges wayward ankles and gets to his locker, which is in the middle row and dangerously close to Butcher’s hips.

“Jesus Christ, Mrotek, put that away,” Bob grimaces, trying to spin the right combination on his lock while squinting. He finally manages to get it open after several false pulls. The locker door obscures his head for a minute; when he bangs it shut, Frank sees that he has donned speedskater sunglasses and a headband. 

“You look like you’re about to blast off into space,” Frank tells him, because seriously, is he the only normal guy that works here or what? 

Bob gives him a steely look that is reminiscent of Robocop. “Fuck off, it wicks away sweat,” he says, pointing to the headband. 

“Are we racing again or what?” Butcher asks, his arms contorted above his head as he pulls on his triceps. 

“I’ll kick everyone’s ass,” Frank scoffs, and Bob jerks a thumb at him. 

“Kid loves to talk.”

“Seriously Frank, did I not just say ‘hills forever’? I think I did.” Butcher runs in place, then delicately fits his helmet over his head. 

“Fine, give me a seven minute handicap. Hey, are you in?” This question is directed toward Travis, who ambles by as Frank is speaking. 

Travis shrugs. “Sounds good. What’s going on?”

“Racing. Frank gets a handicap because his route includes the fucking Alps. Plus he has short legs.” Bob smirks. Travis pats Frank’s ass and then lopes out of range before Frank can retaliate. 

“Fuck off,” Frank scowls. The three of them had bought him a tricycle for Christmas last year. He still needs to exact his revenge for that, except he rides it at home between the living room and the kitchen sometimes when Joe isn’t home.

“The time, gentlemen,” Butcher starts, glancing up at the clock above the door, “is 10:32 in the A.M. Let us dedicate this fine race to Ryan Ross, lord have mercy on his broken body and cold soul. Good luck, safe pedaling, and – we’re off.”

There’s an immediate scramble of shoes squeaking against the floor and the dry clicking of chains as everyone runs their bikes outside. They disband, splitting off into four different directions while flipping each other the bird with one hand. Frank almost immediately runs into an open door, managing to swerve away just in time to avoid being smashed. He grins and raises his hand – with the middle finger still extended – high above his head when Bob hollers something. Frank would never admit it, but sometimes he actually loves his job.

 

*

 

Frank is speeding down a slope when he matches up the address of the building to his left with the one imprinted into his short-term memory. He juts his elbow out instead of signaling properly and then careens into the parking lot to the sound of several cars honking. Get in, get out – that’s his strategy. Most of the delivery slips in his bag have signatures that slide off the edge of the paper because Frank is tugging them away and pedaling off like a demon before people even finish signing. 

The structure is small but it looks fairly modern, with lots of windows and steel beams that lean at weird angles. Double doors of frosted glass come into view as he pedals around to the back and he skids to a stop, hopping a little on one foot to keep balance while the other scrapes against the asphalt as a makeshift brake. About a month ago, he’d tried to convince Ray to compensate him for all the pairs of shoes that were sacrificed in the name of being a bike messenger. It hadn’t worked. 

Frank frowns at the way the sides of his soles are peeling off into little waves of rubber. He pushes the buzzer and squints into the city skyline until he hears the door open. “Hey,” he says, turning back to face whoever’s there, and – whoa. 

The guy blinks. “What’s up?”

Frank blinks back. Most of the people on his route are disgruntled college grads, pimply students, or weird, greasy-haired old men – and women – who stand there and appraise the seat of his bike while Frank’s still sitting on it. At least the women don’t reach out to ‘get a feel for it’. 

But this guy. This guy is cute. Ryan’s face chooses that moment to pop into his mind, in all its slack, contemptuous glory. 

“Ohh,” Frank finally says out loud.

The guy – Ryan’s cute guy – looks spooked. Makes sense, since Frank has been staring at him with an open mouth for the better part of a minute. It kind of seems like he’s trying to close the door as slowly as possible, while hoping that Frank won’t notice. 

Frank gets it together. Strategy and the race fly out the window. “Sorry, I just zoned out there for a moment. Anyway. I’m from the messenger service.” He smiles brightly and tugs his bag open with a sharp noise of Velcro pulling apart. “You guys are popular today,” he comments as he retrieves several flat envelopes and hands them over, along with a delivery slip, all of which look legit enough for the guy to relax. 

“Yeah, we just got couple new contracts,” he says. His smile is more a pursing of the lips, but it looks nice all the same. Frank tilts his head to the side so that the brim of his hat doesn’t obscure his vision, then stares openly at the guy’s peaky shoulders when he turns around to grab a pen. 

“So, what is this place?” Frank asks, making a show of looking around for a sign. 

“Sort of an independent printing company. Comics, novels, short stories, whatever.”

“Nice.” Frank watches him sign the slip with slow, loopy movements before he hands it back to Frank. 

“Thanks,” he says, holding up the envelopes briefly. 

“No prob.” Frank prepares to turn, but changes his mind and twists the front wheel straight again. “Hey,” he says quickly, and the door opens wide once more. Frank asks, “What’s your name?”

A pause. “Mikey,” the guy says, with another pursed lip smile. 

“Mikey, not Mike,” Frank says, because apparently he can’t stop talking. 

Mikey shrugs. “Whatever.”

“Whatever, huh? Like I can call you Glen if I wanted?” 

There, finally. A glimpse of teeth. It disappears quickly, like Mikey’s trying to suppress it. Frank figures he better get out of there before he pushes his luck. 

“Okay, sorry. I’m leaving now. It was nice meeting you, Mikey.” He smiles his most winning smile and adds, “I’m Frank.”

“See you later,” is all Mikey says. 

Frank takes off, straining to listen for the noise of the door clicking shut. He fights the impulse to look over his shoulder when he doesn’t hear anything.

The hill is a steep one from this side of the slope, Butcher was right. Frank can feel his thigh muscles straining, so he half-stands on the pedals and pumps with his weight on his heels. He finds himself hoping that Mikey is watching, becomes disgusted that he is hoping this, then decides he just doesn’t have the time or energy for self-disgust anymore and comes right back around to hoping that Mikey is watching. He’s definitely lost the race and is totally going to get shit from everyone when he gets back, but he finds himself smiling anyway. 

 

*

 

“Oh, wow,” Frank blurts. 

Ryan says, “Fuck you, man.” He’s holding a fork against a half-eaten plate of Jello that’s the same color as the flakes of blood still crusted up near his hairline. A patch of gauze is taped over his right eyebrow and his leg is slightly elevated by a ceiling hammock. The cast is blaringly white. 

Frank doesn’t think he’s ever heard Ryan say refer to him as ‘man’. He glances around and sees the IV drip feeding into the back of Ryan’s hand, the one that’s not scooping up Jello, and clicks that together with the glassy eyes and thick voice. Ryan Ross is sedated to all hell.

“Dude. How are you feeling?” Frank lets go of the balloons he’d brought (‘It’s a boy!’ and ‘Happy 4th Birthday’); they settle into the corner, anchored by two red plastic tokens that have smiley faces. He pulls up a chair by the bed as Ryan watches them sway silently.

“Well,” Frank says as Ryan continues to eye the balloons, “I knew you were hoping for a girl, but. It’s a baby, right?” He squeezes Ryan’s kneecap with faux sincerity. “But seriously, how’s it going?”

“I feel like,” Ryan frowns, “I got hit by a car. Repeatedly,” he continues before Frank can say anything. “And then got thrown into a sewer, where my limp body rode down with the current until I got spit out into the ocean, at which point I got tangled in several boat propellers before being eaten by a whale and shit out onto a beach somewhere, where someone fed me a horse tranquilizer and shook me awake only to punch me in the face before taking me to the hospital.”

He takes a bite of Jello and chews viciously. 

Frank coughs. He starts to crack his knuckles but only gets as far as his index finger because the pop is startlingly loud. 

“I seriously wish I recorded that onto a tape,” he finally says. He’s pretty sure that Ryan just talked more than he did for the entirety of the last year or so.

“But thanks for the balloons, hey, can you believe this fucking thing on my leg?” Ryan says, not quickly but in the same droning breath. He points to the cast with the prongs of his fork. 

“It’ll make a great flotation device, if the hospital ever gets flooded,” Frank offers. 

“I will break my cast over your head,” says Ryan. 

“Oh god, I missed that blind hatred.” Frank rises from his chair and gives Ryan an awkward hug, mostly mashing his shoulder up against Ryan’s mouth. Ryan actually pats him on the back a few times in return.

Frank hangs around for most of the afternoon, as company and also because he wants to bask in this time with the new, very different Ryan. They watch _Maury_ , an infomercial for the Gazelle Fitness Machine, and then  _The People’s Court_ , before moving on to discuss the rumor about how Bob was a world-class climber until he got frostbite while scaling a mountain in Bolivia and now only has eight toes. 

“Falsehood,” Ryan declares sleepily. “Total falsehood.”

“I don’t know. Remember that guy, Jesse Lacey? He quit about two years ago? I’d bet my left nut that he ran off with John Nolan, which is why Ray was promoted to manager. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Bob went with him on what was supposed to be some kayaking trip but they somehow ended up in a Sub-Saharan jungle because Lacey is a crazy motherfucker who…” Frank trails off because Ryan has closed his eyes and apparently drifted off to sleep while Frank was talking. 

“I’m listening,” Ryan mumbles. 

Frank smiles. “Yeah, right, kid. I gotta get going anyhow. Hang in there, okay? Don’t give the nurses a hard time.” He grabs his jacket and stands up, leaning over to rub his palm over Ryan’s hair before walking toward the door. Ryan makes a guttural noise that might be a “bye”. 

Abruptly, Frank remembers something that makes him stop. He weighs his options, then figures he might as well ask. “Listen,” he says as he turns around, “before I go. Your cute guy.” Frank studies his nails and wipes them on his pants. “He’s cute.”

Ryan cracks his eyes open and loudly asks, “ _Who_?”

“The cute guy. On your route.”

“Oh.” Ryan frowns exasperatedly, as if he doesn’t have time to deal with such petty things while lying drugged up on a hospital bed. “God. What. Yeah. Go for it. I have a girlfriend, you know.”

“Ha ha,” says Frank.

“I’m serious.”

“You know, if you have to blow her up to make her three-dimensional, I don’t really think you can call her a girlfriend,” Frank points out. 

“Get out of my room,” says Ryan.

 

*

 

“Hey Mikey,” Frank greets. 

Mikey looks surprised to be called by his name. He readjusts the sit of his glasses by scrunching his nose up a few times. Frank finds this way too endearing. 

“Hey,” Mikey finally says. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain,” Frank shrugs. He digs through his bag, retrieves an envelope, and hands it to Mikey. “Only one today. A black day in the world of printing, it seems like.”

Mikey makes a face. 

Frank makes a face back. “Man, you kind of make it really easy to tease, don’t you?”

“Maybe this is the part where I stun you with wit and obnoxiously loud laughter,” Mikey responds with a faint smile. 

“Okay, so stun me.” Frank crosses his arms over his chest and settles back onto his seat, keeping balance with his tiptoes against the asphalt. 

Before Mikey can say anything, a new voice cuts in with a “hey,” as a face that resembles Mikey’s in a slight way pokes out from behind the other door. “Bike messenger?” he questions, like Frank is a flashcard in some kind of educational game.

“Yes,” Frank agrees after a pause where no one says anything, because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

“Dude, I’m just getting the delivery,” Mikey starts, and then the guy laughs, “Oh. Hey.  _Bike_  messenger.” The inflection confuses Frank. 

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Gerard – ”

“Hey, losers.” Another guy pops into view and pushes at Mikey’s shoulder. 

“Pete – ” Mikey tries, but Pete cuts in: “What’s with the party?” He looks at Frank curiously.

“I’m gonna go?” Frank grasps the handlebars. 

“Oh, but I haven’t signed the – thing.” Mikey makes a scribbling motion.

“Right.” Frank digs around in his bag, all too aware of three people staring at him from the doorway. It adds a whole new sense of awkwardness and he just mutters a “thanks” when Mikey hands the delivery slip back. He never has done well with an audience. 

He turns around and kicks off with his foot, but drags himself to a stop and calls, “I’ll see you later, Mikey,” over his shoulder before he can stop himself.

“Bye Frank,” Gerard calls in return. 

“Bye Frank,” Pete yells. 

“Bye Frank.” Mikey says it last. He holds a hand up, fingers slightly curled in a resigned sort of way.

Frank waves back and wonders if he ever mentioned his name during that weird little conversation. He doesn’t get a chance to dwell on it though, since soon every ounce of energy is being used to keep his stupid bike moving. Goddamn hills.

 

*

 

Over the next couple weeks, Frank continues to flirt uselessly for ten minutes out of the day because as much as he loves doing it, he still has a sense of self-preservation and can’t stomach the thought of taking it one step further to actually asking Mikey out or whatever people do nowadays, getting rejected, and then having to fucking bike away and up a huge hill in full view of Mikey. 

He’s lying on the bench between the two sets of lockers, being dramatic about his predicament. “Hey, wanna swap routes?” he asks up at Bob.

Bob snorts. “Nice try.”

“What?”

“Hills forever,” Butcher supplies helpfully as he passes through Frank’s line of vision. 

Frank sighs. “Dude, it isn’t even about that.”

“Don’t try to pull that sighing, damsel in distress thing with me,” Bob says, but he’s determinedly not looking at Frank, choosing instead to rifle through his locker. Frank notices he doesn’t actually pick anything out, though. 

“Fine,” Frank says. He lays the back of his hand over his forehead. 

Bob is practically inside his locker by now. “Fuck you. What is it, then?”

“He’s got a huge boner for this mailroom boy,” someone says. 

Frank scrambles to sit up as Bob emerges from his locker. Ryan is standing at the end of the bench with crutches and a smirk. “Watch the foot, watch the foot,” he yells as Bob pulls him into a gruff hug. 

“You’re not even supposed to come back until next week,” Frank says, but he stands on the bench and wraps his arms around Ryan’s head, pressing it against his stomach. 

“Cast comes off tomorrow. I figured I’d re-acclimate myself to the workplace.”

“Right, ‘cause it’s such a nice place to be,” Frank laughs. 

“Demerits for that, Frank!” Ray calls from inside his office. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank yells back. He notices that Ryan’s cast is still as clean as the first day Frank had seen him. “I’m gonna sign that thing and you can’t stop me because I have two good legs.”

Ryan swings a crutch at him but Frank ducks away, off the bench and into Ray’s office. 

“Hey, I need a Sharpie to draw dirty pictures all over Ryan’s cast,” he tells Ray. 

Ray studies him for a moment while tapping a ballpoint pen against his chin. Finally, he opens his desk drawer and hands Frank a purple Sharpie. Ray is a cool guy. 

“You didn’t get it from me,” Ray says, which is stupid because Frank came into his office pen-less and is now coming out with one, but whatever. 

Frank runs back out to where Ryan and Bob are talking. He settles onto the bench and pats his lap. Ryan gives him a look. 

“Come on,” Frank coaxes. He pats harder. “Come  _on_.” 

“God.” Ryan sits down and lifts his leg onto Frank’s lap with a grimace of disgust rather than pain. Frank proceeds to start drawing as gently as possible. 

“Don’t you dare draw a huge penis or something like that,” Ryan warns. 

Frank pauses, then amends the two big circles into eyes. He’s almost done with the zombie-face when Bob says, “Fine, I’ll take over your route. But only for today,” he adds, glancing at Ryan. 

“What the hell’s the point of that?”

“Take it or leave it,” Bob says.

“Okay, okay, I’ll take it.” Because if Bob issues an ultimatum like that, you always take it. Right away. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Bob adjusts his headband. 

 

*

 

Frank’s at home that night and eating cereal for dinner when someone knocks on the door. It can’t be Joe forgetting his keys, because he’s just taken to yelling, “Dude?” against the door whenever it happens.

Frank swings the door open and says, “Uh.” 

Mikey gives him a small smile from the other side of the doorway. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Frank repeats. He points his toes – he’s barefoot – and drags them over the carpet in the ensuing silence.

“This is me stunning you,” Mikey explains. “It kind of takes the edge off since I have to tell you that, though.”

Frank opens his mouth, but nothing comes out for a while. Finally, he says, “How did you – ” His brain kicks into gear and he laughs at himself. “Wait. I’m guessing you met Bob, huh?”

“Bob who?” 

“I can see the address written on your hand,” Frank points as Mikey reflexively closes his hand into a fist. “He didn’t threaten you into this, did he?”

“Yeah, he’s waiting outside for me in the bushes with a rag soaked in chloroform,” Mikey says. It doesn’t seem like that far-fetched of an idea, but Mikey has this soft expression on his face that makes Frank want to grab his wrists and tug him closer. 

There’s a particularly loud noise from the television; Mikey looks over Frank’s shoulder. “What are you watching? Is that  _Degrassi_?”

“No,” Frank says quickly, just as a voiceover blares, “ _Degrassi: The Next Generation_  will be right back,” because this is Frank’s life – he answers the door barefoot, wearing a soy sauce stained undershirt and boxers while guys with deep voices advertise his taste in television. Also, there’s a tricycle parked by the couch. 

“So I was thinking pizza tomorrow,” Mikey begins abruptly. 

Frank raises his eyebrows. 

“Unless you’re a vegan or something,” Mikey continues. “In which case, you can eat crusts dipped in sauce and I can eat pizza.”

“Mikey, you’re asking me out,” Frank states, feeling a smile slowly spread over his mouth. 

Mikey has his hands in his pockets; he pushes his arms akimbo in what passes for a shy shrug. “You’re pretty stunned, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” Frank leans against the doorframe. “I’m pretty fucking impressed, yes.”

“Thanks for the validation.” 

“I can attach a basket to my bike and pick you up,” Frank offers. He smiles when Mikey laughs, then fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “So, pizza. Sounds good.”

“Good. Okay.” Mikey nods. 

“Okay.”

“Cool,” says Mikey with a stupid lopsided grin. Then again, Frank is totally grinning the same way. That’s why Mikey meets mostly teeth when he leans forward to kiss Frank. Frank barely reacts in time to kiss Mikey back – it’s only for like, a millisecond before Mikey pulls away and shrugs again with only one shoulder before turning and walking back toward the elevators. 

Frank just stands there and gawks. 

He’s pretty fucking stunned.

 

*

 

“Mikey,” Frank greets. 

Mikey squints into the sun. “Frank.”

Frank thinks he catches sight of Gerard’s wildly grinning face in the background. “Got two things for you today,” he informs, opening his bag.

“Right.” Mikey accepts the envelopes and signs quickly. “All set?”

“Indeed I am,” Frank says. Mikey’s mouth twitches. 

“Well, thanks. Have a safe ride back.”

“Thanks.” Frank grabs the handlebars and leans forward. “I’ll see you tonight, Mikey Way.”

Mikey tilts his head at the sound of his last name. “Yeah. Frank Iero.” 

During the ride back, Frank grins to himself until his face starts to hurt. The hills don’t seem bad at all today.


End file.
